Category Archives: poetry

Marilyn Hacker wins PEN Voelcker Award

Marilyn Hacker (photo Margaretta Mitchell)

The overly-modest Marilyn Hacker reports that she has won the PEN Voelcker Award. The award recognizes “an American poet whose distinguished and growing body of work to date represents a notable and accomplished presence in American literature, . . . for whom the exceptional promise seen in earlier work has been fulfilled, and who continues to mature with each successive volume of poetry.” Judges were Christopher Ricks, Marie Ponsot, and David Ferry. Ponsot was Marilyn’s poetry mentor, which surely sweetens the moment. The citation, which singles out Hacker’s recent tour de force Names, bears reporting here:

“Marilyn Hacker is a splendid poet. A multiplex of cultural layering carries over her poetic powers into her translations. Beyond accuracy and nuanced understanding, she evokes qualities of feeling and tone, full of life. Hacker has translated strong French poets, of course. I also note her early awareness of Francophonic poets, and has translated them to our welcome. This new book, Names, is a beautiful instance of her famous ability to use forms, iambic pentameter, say, rhymed stanzas, say, not to repress the speaking voice by regulating it into a condition of repressed formality but to exploit the resources of forms to set the voice free to be alive, immediate, unformal, there. Her subjects, her occasions, are various—erotic love, the life and look of neighborhoods, in Paris, in New York, the lives and troubles of friends, the besieged worlds of other writers, the outrages of our leaders; and her voice, as called for by her occasions, is joyful, tender, self-amused, and angry, alive—and even in the anger there’s joy, the exhilaration of saying it well, and saying it right to you. Her poems are never guilty of what Empson calls ‘the poet choosing painful subjects less because he feels strongly about them than because he feels it shameful not to feel strong about them.’ And when her poems and translations are expressions of social or political pity and outrage, it is the pity and outrage of an aroused, alive, strong-minded, fair-minded sensibility, not merely a program of convictions. These poems and translations bring life to life.”

Incidentally, you can look for Hacker’s critical essay collection, Unauthorized Voices, due out by the end of this month from the University of Michigan Press’ indispensable Poets on Poetry series.

A virtual wave and a champagne-cork pop from across the pond to my very favorite poet!

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Facebook, friends, and fragility

A blast from the past: a post on finally hearing from Tom AC5TM, to whom “Stepping Out of the Car, After Not Recognizing an Old Friend’s House” is dedicated, in the days following Katrina and the levee break.

I’m keeping mostly to myself as comps arrive and as the nastiness of K+5 stuffed emotions occasionally bubble up. Poetry and planning are the two best ways to cope.

I’ve also been pretty well kicked in the gut over Facebook recently, so am thinking long and hard about who I really want to spend time dealing with (as I have no time whatsoever). All my real friends who read this: Come find me here. Come find me via real e-mail. Come find me via snail-mail–now THERE’S something new and different. If you want my real e-mail or my real mailing address, just ask. Maybe I’ll come back to FB, o crack pipe, o conflict, but I’m going to quit using it as Twitter, probably to the delight of hundreds. Perhaps I will no longer attract freaks and annoy acquaintances.

One of the great disadvantages of grad school is that, given our overheated schedules, there’s never any time to develop real friendships or a genuine sense of community. FB has filled that void, to a certain extent, because I could at least banter with old friends far away. I miss quality time in the real world with a few good friends. I’ve been reminded what the word “friend” constitutes. And because 20 years blows by in a second, I’d rather be alone most of the time, or with my partner and my family, than spread myself as thin as I have been in recent years. Life’s too short for time-wasting foolishness. I am no longer opening the door to my precious time unless I have a damn good reason for doing so.

Is your life materially better because of your electronic gadgets? Seriously? Of course I get the irony that I’m typing this on a computer and flinging it into the digiverse. As Katrina bore down on New Orleans and the Gulf Coast, I tried to use social media as if I were still at CNN. I wanted to disseminate information through backchannels. I wanted to know how and where other poets and writers, many of whom are friends, were at the time. I wanted to do something useful, not just sit there and not report on the biggest news story ever in the place I know the best on Earth. So I made do, both in Atlanta online and in Mississippi via amateur radio.

Five years later, the city was fighting back like mad and making progress, and then BP turned the entire Gulf Coast into its own personal chemistry lab. Scratch all the plans we’d made for moving here or there. Scratch everything I know and love. At least on Facebook I’ve been able to communicate with my fellow New Orleanians, now living all over the country/world. At least it was something I could hold onto.

Now I am nobody, living noplace.

My closest friends from high school live in Australia, Spain, and Massachusetts.

My country has done little to nothing for my city, my state, my region over the past five years.

What else is there for me here? Seriously?

All I want to do is write my dispatches, whether poems, articles, or novels, from a quiet and relatively human-scale coastal village lacking DSL. Maybe I’ll be lucky enough to teach those who want to learn about language and literature. My standard of living is modest. I don’t need (nor do I want) a ton of money. I want to pace my life according to the tides, the fish running, the dolphins and ospreys making their daily round trips, the sun sizzling into the ocean on the horizon. I want to live somewhere where I can shore dive every day and watch gobies in their natural habitat. I want a good tropical thunderstorm again. I want to dash under the patio roof, the water pounding the tin, rivulets roping from the eaves, to sit on the steps and drink beer and play the guitar and talk all afternoon. I want the kind of friends who know how that feels.

And the Clouds Broke…

I’m back in Atlanta after driving all night from New Orleans. I’ll update this post after work. However, I do want to say that yesterday’s readings were better than church, better than therapy, better than the best literary fest you could attend. All my writer friends and I had church, as it were, with Mona Lisa Saloy‘s summoning the spirit by calling out, “My grandma and your grandma…” and all of us responding, “Sittin’ on the bayou…”, and Errol Laborde‘s benediction: “Come home. The city needs you.”

And as I headed east on I-10, as I began to tear up about leaving where I feel most at home in this world, the gray squall that had hovered over the city all weekend, that rain I was sure was the tears of all the living and the dead, broke open above the Danzinger Bridge. Across from that platinum brilliance, a full rainbow dropped over the mostly-unoccupied shells of apartments near Bullard Road. I wept, hot-faced, so hard that I had to pull the car over. When I was able to go on, John Boutte’ sang his Katrinafied version of “Louisiana 1927” and I pulled over again, this time at Bayou Sauvage, and I got down on one knee before this sign and took photo after photo after photo, as if no one would believe such a story otherwise.

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Katrina, Five Years Later: Too Much Left Undone

Joan of ArcI thank God that I am in New Orleans today, writing this. 1,464 Louisianians are not able to give any testimonies of their experiences.

I am also grateful and overjoyed to have met so many fine bloggers and other dedicated New Orleanians at Rising Tide V. Seeing friends in person, some of whom I haven’t seen in years, and making new friends was the best possible therapy for this New Orleanian in exile. Rising Tide is New Orleans’ brain trust, and certainly its best grassroots think tank.

Today I’ll head over to Garden District Book Shop for the New Orleans: What Can’t Be Lost book signing. In attendance:

Lee Barclay, Christopher Porché West, Sunday Angleton, Jason Berry, Simonette Berry, Amanda Boyden, Julia Carey, Tara Jill Ciccarone, Joshua Clark, Morgan Clevenger, Lucas Díaz-Medina, Joel Dinerstein, Louis Edwards, Gina Ferrara, Lee Meitzen Grue, Sarah K. Inman, Julie Kane, Errol Laborde, Katheryn Krotzer Laborde, Louis Maistros, Alex McMurray, Maria Montoya, Kami Patterson, Valentine Pierce, Dr. Mona Lisa Saloy, Henri Schindler, Barbara Trevigne, Jerry W. Ward, Jr., Missy Wilkinson, and Kelly Wilson.

Then, I’ll hit Tulane University’s Kendall Cram Room for “Remembering Katrina: A 5th Anniversary Poetry Reading.”On the bill: Brenda Marie Osbey, Yusef Komunyakaa, Peter Cooley, Nicole Cooley, Kay Murphy, Brad Richard, Alison Pelegrin, and Martha Serpas. What an incredible reading this will be. You should get there if at all humanly possible.

Too many of the poor who have survived are still living in broken-down houses, in between too many boarded-up houses, with little hope from either the schools or from Baton Rouge for improving their economic and educational situation. The University of New Orleans continues to be slighted and is fighting for its life, along with every other public higher education institution in the state. Our President is going to speak about Katrina at Xavier today. I hope he gets around the city to places other than the usual advance-man scenic stand-ups depicting progress. Given the Gulf fiasco, I won’t hold my breath. On Friday, street flooding in the bowl where Xavier sits blocked northbound traffic on Carrollton all the way back to the Archdiocese within minutes. Clearly nothing is being done about that kind of street flooding. Moreover, adding drainage capacity is not enough to compensate for the greater volumes in the water cycle. We need federal dollars to rebuild and to clean up, but we also need federal mandates for green energy and transportation. If you don’t believe in climate change yet, please drive your SUV under the overpass at Carrollton and I-10 and kiss my purple, green, and gold ass. Until Americans change our fossil-fuel worshipping ways, we will continue to push the residents of New Orleans and the Gulf Coast under the oil-slicked, Corexit-filled water. As New Orleans and the Gulf Coast go, so goes America.

At some point, I’ll post a longer piece reflecting on the journey home, which is, even at this late date, a work in progress. And before I press the START button in the rental hybrid car, I’ll take a walk on the levee, the way I used to take for granted I would do all my life, and remember The City That Care Forgot.

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Nerds and Hoods: An Allegory for Poets

Once upon a time, two kids named Nerd and Hood lived in a bleak post-industrial wasteland. Nerd liked school. Hood didn’t.

When Nerd went to school, he learned knife skills that would have taken him half a lifetime to figure out. Oh, how he learned to sharpen and clean and twirl knives, scalpels, machetes, switchblades, straight-razors. He cut himself a few times and had the scars to prove it. The old knifemaster was a sour taskmaster who always kept Nerd’s nose to the grindstone. After ten thousand sessions, Nerd mastered the art of knife-juggling, though not to the old knifemaster’s satisfaction.

Nerd listened to disagreeable notions and learned that some of those notions, even the occasional snarling one, were indeed worth keeping. The others he learned to recognize at 50 paces, the better to avoid them in dark alleys. As a sideline to parrying, Nerd learned how to sew up cuts, treat puncture wounds, and apply tournequits to amputations.

Hood preferred to be his own schoolmaster, carving and yawping his texts as they came. He knew some knifemasters, and he had studied their moves closely. He was no slouch at switchblade, but thought the scabbard an outdated symbol of closed samurai circles. He found the sabre tiresome and the foil predictable. Hood was just as smart as Nerd. He would never say so, but sometimes he felt a little bit intimidated whenever he saw Nerd parrying with classmates. Hood hung out in dark alleyways with disagreeable notions and played mumbly-peg with them. He never made a fuss over the cuts crisscrossing his hands.

One evening, Nerd cut through a dark alleyway and spotted a disagreeable notion. It hobbled about, showing its teeth and growling. Nerd thought he might be able to help the disagreeable notion. He stretched out his hand and made soothing noises. The disagreeable notion snapped and lunged. Nerd backed off and observed the notion from a distance.

Hood ran up behind the disagreeable notion and waved his switchblade, hoping to scare Nerd off. The disagreeable notion turned on Hood and bit him on the hand. Blood splattered on the alleyway as Hood cursed and dropped the switchblade.

Nerd knew something about disagreeable notion attacks, so pressed gently on the wound. This kindness only enraged Hood, who had some experience of his own with first aid, thank you very much, and snatched back his hand.

Nerd was somewhat surprised. He’d only wanted to lend a hand. But Hood liked his hand ragged and bloody and didn’t want any nerdy influences on his mumbly-peg game.

Meanwhile, the disagreeable notion ran off into the night. Hood turned to chase after it.

Nerd picked up Hood’s switchblade, wiped it clean, pulled out a whetstone, gave the blade a couple of grinds, twirled the knife, retracted the blade, and slipped it in Hood’s back pocket without making a big show of things. Nerd turned back the way he’d come, saying nothing.

The next day, Hood showed off his swollen hand, which glistened where the meat was beginning to stitch itself back together, and swore he was the king of mumbly-peg.

Nerd allowed as how Hood had skills.

The keen knife winked under the fierce sun.

New Orleans Poets & Writers Mark K+5 All Weekend Long

Joan of Arc statue in New Orleans (c) Robin Kemp 2004Here’s but a taste of the bounty of literary response to Katrina Five Years Later. Many more events, signings, etc. are going on in New Orleans this week; some cost money, some don’t. Here’s where I plan to do a little reading and a lot of listening:

8 pm Thursday: A Howling in the Wires book launch party at Mimi’s in the Marigny

9 am -??? Friday: TEDxNOLA at Le Petit Theatre du Vieux Carre’


9 am – 6 pm Saturday: Rising Tide NOLA V: A Conference on the Future of New Orleans at Howlin’ Wolf

1 pm Sunday: New Orleans: What Can’t Be Lost signing at Garden District Book Shop

3:30 pm Sunday: Remembering Katrina: A Poetry Reading at Tulane University

5 pm Sunday: All Hands on Deck Benefit at Gold Mine Saloon

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Eight Cards, Ten Minutes: A Writing Exercise

Today, I gave a workshop on using creative nonfiction in first-year composition. The exercise I came up with seems to work. Try it in your own classroom, or use it to generate your own writing.

What follows was originally meant for the beginning writer who has trouble organizing ideas, getting started, finding something interesting to write about–all the usual freshman comp puzzles. Students love it when you “break it down” for them. I’m assuming the usual personal narrative first essay. If you want to talk about what constitutes creative nonfiction, you can do that as an introduction and give them a few excerpts from good writers.

For the pedagogically-minded, this approach turns intimidating little index cards into manipulables. However, you can use it with advanced students and for your own writing.

Everyone who attended this workshop is a fairly advanced creative writer. They ran with the exercise, generated some great new work, and we all brainstormed ways to apply this technique to creative writing (for example, substituting various literary devices or craft points for the 5W+H on the small cards). Later, I explained the process to a doctoral student who’s having trouble with her dissertation. She was excited based on the description alone and said she would try it, too.

You’ll need a timer or a watch/clock that counts seconds. Each writer will need eight cards: six 3×5, one 4×6, and one 5×8. The number of cards is not set in stone; you can adapt it to your needs. I say six small cards because I ask beginning writers to consider the reporter’s 5W+H (who, what, when, where, why, how) as part of this exercise. However, I make them save the “Why” card for last.

Ask students not to talk during the exercise and not to race ahead to the next card. Explain they will have one minute to write on each card. Then, ask them to think of a place, a time, a sensation that they enjoyed. Ask them to go back in their minds to that time and place and observe it. Give them a minute or so to think.

Next, have them fill out the WHO card–who’s there? Anyone else? After one minute, have them turn that card face down. Repeat this process for the WHAT, WHEN, and WHERE cards.

Then, have them set aside the WHY card. Do the HOW card first. Then do the WHY card. They may seem puzzled. That’s OK. Beginning writers are hair-trigger ready to tell you why this or that happened before examining the people and situations involved. They won’t realize it, but they’ve already begun their research by analyzing the basic elements of their story. How something happens often leads to larger synthesis of why it happened. By doing the WHY card last, students have to weigh the scene relatively objectively before passing judgment on its players.

Now, you can play with these cards–mix them all up, rearrange the order, perhaps even swap cards with other students if you’re using this in a creative writing workshop. Ask the writers to look at their cards and pick a favorite. That’s going to be the hook for their essay. Based on that card, have them write one and only one sentence on the big card.

Because beginning writers often need to exorcise cliché and vague language, have them use the medium-sized card to collect concrete, descriptive words that might work on the small cards. (The advanced writers were drooling to write their paragraphs by this point, so we skipped that step. Your mileage may vary.)

Then, give the students five minutes to write a paragraph on the big card. When time’s up, ask for volunteers to read what they’ve written if they feel comfortable doing so.

Handout excerpt:

“…in less than ten minutes, you’ve generated new writing; you’ve brainstormed; you’ve outlined; you’ve created a system of organization; you’ve quite possibly developed a thesis statement; you’ve opened the door for further inquiry through research and observation; and you’ve developed a focus for a piece of writing you actually want to do.

“This is good for an in-class writing exercise. It’s also good for students who have trouble with sequencing ideas or writer’s block.

“Also, by putting your ideas on cards, you’ve created tangible objects that you can move around, tape to the wall, tack on your forehead, whatever works for you.”

I got the idea for this approach thinking about how I’ve used Post-Its as a low-tech, tangible, portable editing tool. I’ve used digital cluster diagramming software, but sometimes I just want a little less techno-mediation between my brain and my writing process. I’ve shown students how to use Post-Its in this way; they always find it helpful and I’ve seen them take enormous leaps shortly thereafter.

I also had to study on the run because I worked full-time during most of my undergraduate career. I always had flashcards or a folded-up photocopy of the assigned reading in my back pocket. Every time I went for coffee, had to walk to another part of the building, rode the train, or went to the bathroom, I had those cards handy. (I like to joke that I earned my B.A. in the ladies’ room at CNN.) As card-carrying students, your writers will gain valuable time management and study skills.

You can also do things like have students post the day’s cards on a course management site for your records, for a grade, for safekeeping. You can offer a private area for some cards of their choosing and a public area for others. Let them keep their cards. That’s their writing, not yours. Don’t pick up the cards to check; definitely don’t edit the cards; and don’t grade the cards as anything but participation. Respect the cards!

The premise here is that writers write because it makes them happy on some level (see T.R. Johnson‘s ideas about writing as pleasure). Happy writers get started writing by doing several tasks in a certain order. First, we collect bits of string or a few quick sketches. Then, we browse our treasures until we pick up one to play with. Next, we write down that idea before it floats away. Next, we shape the idea quickly–weave in more bits of string, shade in small details. We are surprised and delighted when we realize we’ve created something.

Kenneth Achity in The Writer’s Time has a lot to say about the “Managing Editor,” and anyone who teaches college composition is familiar with Mina Shaughnessy’s landmark Errors and Expectations. Freshman composition is enormously stressful for both student and instructor. This exercise separates the editing process from the proofreading process, and both from the act of creation.

You can tell beginning writers to revise; you can show them how; you will get identical printouts (as opposed to revisions); you will grade the same paper twice without the students having bothered to read your comments or make any corrections.

Or, you can give them a stack of index cards and make every class meeting a productive writing session. You can move around the room and help the stragglers, You can watch your students take responsibility for their own writing. You can, indeed, have fun.

Once you show your students how to write on their own, they’ll be able to generate decent first drafts. By the end of their first week in class, they should have a decent first draft, one in which they are invested, one that they might want to edit and proofread, one that makes both them and you happy writers. I’m interested in anything that helps students revise. Eight Cards in Ten Minutes gets them started.

If you try it, please let me know how you adapted it and how it went. You can leave a comment here and I’ll repost it. (I moderate the blog to keep out spam, so please excuse any minor delay between submission and reposting.) I’m collecting feedback for a book on this process and will acknowledge all contributors.

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My dissertation, the BP oil spill, and losing my waterhome

(or, the semi-coherent rantings of a doctoral student with aquatic tendencies)

A Leafy Sea Dragon

A Leafy Sea Dragon

My doctoral dissertation is tentatively titled AQUA and was conceived as a combination praise song for, and warning about what we humans are doing to, the water. In recent weeks, I’d been gearing up for the big push: making research contacts, applying for grants, and so on.

Then BP, Transocean, and Halliburton destroyed my beaches, my wetlands, my seafood, my Gulf. My (Louisiana) state government is suddenly surprised that it sold its soul to the devil. My federal government is reenacting its glacial Katrina response. My people (New Orleans and the Gulf Coast) are screaming, screaming for help and once again only hearing echoes.

When I can calm down, I’m going to write one hell of an essay about this for publication. Meanwhile, I’m diving into my dissertation and my comprehensive exams, occasionally surfacing to monitor the unfolding disaster and to send up distress flares. And I need your help.

I’m looking for any and all opportunities to help protect the Gulf while gathering material for my dissertation, as well as for any incidental nonfiction work that may pop up. Please let me know if you hear of anything.

For non-poets: I’m not a hobbyist. This is my academic and professional interest, born out of a lifetime on, in, around, and under the water. If you have any serious ongoing interest in the health of our oceans and waterways, I’m always happy to hear from you. I’ve assembled quite a Rolodex, as we say in the news business, and am seeking every possible opportunity to observe, to tag along, to interview, to be interviewed, to do fieldwork, to write articles, to write poems, in any location, real or virtual, anytime.

Specifically water-related experience: Lifelong canoer/sailor/lifeguard/swimming instructor; environmental reporter for Gambit, 1987-89 (Brown Pelican Award for Environmental Reporting, 1988, re: coastal erosion on Grand Isle); decent recreational/scientific diver (YMCA/NAUI/PADI/AAUS); former volunteer naturalist/diver/STSSN sighter, Aquarium of the Americas; experienced bareboat cruiser (Bahamas, 1980) and sail/dive cruiser (Galapagos, 2007); brief stint as fiberglass boat fairer, Seabrook Marine, ca. 1999.

Other skill sets: writing, reporting, teaching, multimedia, research, emergency communications, reef fish identification, rescue diving.

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Maxine Cassin

Maxine Cassin died peacefully last night. This is the Jewish prayer for the dead.

El male rachamim

God full of mercy who dwells on high
Grant perfect rest on the wings of Your Divine Presence
In the lofty heights of the holy and pure
who shine as the brightness of the heavens
to the soul of Maxine

who has gone to her eternal rest
as, without making a formal vow,
I pledge to give charity in memory of her soul.
Her resting place shall be in the Garden of Eden.
Therefore, the Master of mercy will care for her
under the protection of His wings for all time
And bind her soul in the bond of everlasting life.
God is her inheritance and she will rest in peace
and let us say Amen.